


Ornamented

by todisturbtheuniverse



Series: Tongues Will Wag [9]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Act 2, Developing Relationship, F/F, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 18:47:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9136903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/todisturbtheuniverse/pseuds/todisturbtheuniverse
Summary: On First Day, it is traditional to check that one’s friends and neighbors are still alive. Just in case wolves came across the fields and ate them in the night, you know.





	

**Author's Note:**

> It’s good luck to end the year with a Hawkebela fic, right? Right. Takes place mid-Act 2.

"You know, in Lothering, First Day was just an excuse to check that everybody was still alive. Morbid, isn't it?"

Isabela forced one eye open and rolled it toward the source of the noise: Hawke, shutting the door to Isabela's room with an ample hip, a steaming mug clasped in her hand.

"I'm alive," Isabela replied—a bit unnecessarily, she thought, but Hawke could be obtuse at the best of times, and judging by the tone of her voice, this was _not_ the best of times. "You can leave me to sleep this off, now."

Hawke gave a little hum, then a cluck of her tongue, and sat down on the bed beside Isabela. "I waited as late as I could. You're my last stop. Incredibly, _everyone_ is alive." She chuckled a little. "Besides, a sip of this, and you'll feel _much_ better."

If only Isabela believed her. She'd had some of Hawke's remedies before—little mixtures she claimed that her father, a perfectly capable apostate, had perfected—and they usually weren't worth the weird, gurgling stomach which pursued her for hours afterward.

She didn't exactly possess the strength to roll away from Hawke at the moment, though. She'd forgotten what being sick— _really_ sick, not just a pesky hangover or passing sniffles—felt like. So much snot had no business coming out of her nose. Surely she couldn't produce much more of it.

Sometime during these hazy, distracted thoughts, Hawke had set the drink down on the bedside table and now had her hand pressed to Isabela's forehead. Isabela didn't like the look on her face one bit, but the hand was nice, cool against her skin despite the hot drink it had just been wrapped around. Hawke's hands were _nice_ , in general. Not in the sense of being particularly soft, mind—all those callouses from her daggers, and years of hard labor in some horrible little farm town which even the locals didn't love enough to give it a kind name—just in the sense of being _talented_. She could stab a man in the eye from fifty paces off, probably, and that wasn't even getting into what she could do _without_ blades.

Isabela smiled, a little hazily, and Hawke gave her a deep frown in response. Right. Fever. Making her act a little off, probably. She supposed it was poor form to try and seduce Hawke while she was ill. Spreading the germs, and all that. But a tumble _would_ make her feel better.

"You're right in the middle of it," Hawke sighed, and took that lovely hand away to pick up the foul drink instead. What the piss that drink had done to deserve it, she had _no_ idea. Hawke held it a little closer to her, and Isabela wrinkled her nose.

"I'm not drinking that."

"You'd better," Hawke said, in that grim way that gave Isabela the most _delightful_ shivers—not like fever shivers, not at all. "Your brain's going to cook, otherwise."

"It's cooked before."

Despite this vaguely disturbing image, Hawke's mouth tugged into a smirk. "Oh, is that why you can't walk in a straight line?"

"I can't walk in a straight line because _you_ don't look at my ass enough," Isabela replied, rolling her eyes. "You think I do all that business with my hips for fun?"

"If you drink this, I promise I'll look at your ass whenever someone isn't trying to stab me," Hawke said, with the air of great solemnity.

"I still don't think that's a fair trade."

Hawke sighed. She was getting frustrated, now. Not the most patient woman, Hawke, especially when she had an eye on something she wanted. Never could predict what she wanted, either. Apparently getting Isabela to drink this drink was so desirable that she'd lost her taste for playful banter. Bad sign, that.

"Name your price, minx."

Isabela narrowed her eyes thoughtfully, trying to piece together an idea in the overheated depths of her mind. Shame she didn't have the presence of mind to be a bit more creative, here. She had a feeling Hawke would do just about anything to get her to drink that awful concoction.

"You never wear any jewelry," she said at last.

Hawke wrinkled her nose. "It gets in the way. I've no idea how you haven't been strangled by your own necklace yet."

"Hah. Joke's on you. I _have_ been." She ignored Hawke's horrified look and shifted to try and sit up; Hawke quickly put down the drink and helped, setting her up against the headboard.

"This is not convincing so far," Hawke said, though not without some trace of amusement.

"It will be. You'd look _fabulous_ in silver…and nothing else."

For a brief instant, Isabela enjoyed the look on Hawke's face: the way her cheeks flushed with realization, the incremental widening of her blue, blue eyes. Hawke could be relied upon to give as good as she got, always, but sometimes if Isabela was quick enough and clever enough, there was this lovely gap where Hawke froze up and had to scramble for something, anything, to say. She'd caught Hawke off-guard, not by being quick this time, probably, but because Hawke was distracted by how ill she was. Not her finest victory, she supposed, but a win was a win.

She did love their banter—one of the reasons she'd been drawn to Hawke in the first place—but this was sweet, too, a tiny triumph she didn't quite understand.

Hmm. _Sweet_. An odd way to describe a fling, for her, but she blamed it on the fever and let the thought drift away.

"Just so I understand," Hawke said, and she was back, all sly with one eyebrow cocked, "you're going to drink this, and then you're going to buy me jewelry and decorate me with it? In the interest of fairness, I have to say that this deal seems heavily skewed in my favor—"

" _You_ buy it," Isabela said, and snorted. "Of course. If I had that kind of money, I wouldn't be keeping a room here."

Hawke snorted. "I know about all the sovereigns you've stashed away beneath that loose floorboard. You have enough coin for some cheap trinkets."

"They can't be _cheap_ ," Isabela protested. "That wouldn't do you any credit at all. Look—I'm going to take you shopping, I'm going to _tell_ you what to buy, and we're going to have a good time. A damn good time, to make up for that foul-smelling thing."

"You drive a hard bargain," Hawke said, but she was smiling. "Deal. Drink."

She held the mug to Isabela's mouth, and she drank every blighted drop of it, though her stomach churned and she was _sure_ she'd end up puking all over Hawke. At the end of it, though, the foul taste faded; the sleep that had eluded her all night rose up, a powerful tidal wave, to pull her under.

"You didn't say it would knock me out," she said, but the words slurred together; she had to fight to get them out at all.

"You'll feel better when you wake up," Hawke told her; she could barely hear. "The market will be in full swing, and I'll buy whatever nonsense you tell me to. Go to sleep."

She tried to move, to reach out, but couldn't; just before the darkness claimed her, she felt Hawke's lips press a soft kiss to her sweaty forehead.

It felt like days later that she woke, alone, in her room, a full pitcher of water on her bedside table and a desert coating her throat. Based on the pitch of voices downstairs, festivities were in full swing. She drank down half the pitcher—still cool, thanks to the shoddy insulation of The Hanged Man—and at the end of it, she realized that she _did_ feel better. Still greasy, absolutely, in dire need of a bath, but the ache in her throat had gone, her head was clear, and while the skin around her nose and lips was painfully chapped, at least snot wasn't streaming out of her anymore.

A folded scrap of paper and two small packages sat on her bedside table, safely apart from the pitcher, tied up in crinkled brown paper and twine. She picked up the paper and the package attached to it first—a note from Hawke.

_I'll be back at nightfall. The ointment is for your nose._

She opened the little jar. This, at least, smelled decent. She smeared it over her chapped skin and, almost instantly, the worst of the pain faded.

"Maybe work on making that tonic taste a little better, too," she muttered, appreciatively breathing in the mint.

The other package did not contain any missive, only a glinting, glittering pair of golden earrings, set with rubies and citrine. She shook her head, but she held them up to the light, admiring them in spite of herself.

She would worry that there had been a misunderstanding, but—well, the truth was, Hawke _liked_ trinkets. Couldn't keep her paws off them, so long as she didn't have to pay for them. And she doubly liked to spread them around, as if some little statue or ship in a bottle or pretty baubles could cure the latest Kirkwall misery as well as her foul little tonics cured the flu. This was not at all out of character for Hawke.

With a languorous stretch and a hearty yawn, Isabela rose to get cleaned up. She remembered the deal, after all, and she was very much looking forward to decorating Hawke like one of those elaborate holiday cakes. Silver, absolutely; it would look like the glint of sun-caught snow on her skin. Sapphires, too. And rubies—just because Isabela liked the color.

By the time Hawke returned, Isabela had it all planned out. Freshly bathed and clothed, new earrings fastened, she looped her arm through Hawke's and tugged.

"Well, come on. A deal's a deal."

Hawke gave an obligatory, rueful sigh, but there was a smile at the corner of her mouth, giving away the game. Her eyes lingered on the earrings, as if admiring her own tribute, and Isabela turned her head this way and that to give her a better view.

"They do flatter the curve of your ear," Hawke said, in a fair imitation of that arse who was forever trying to recite poetry in the barroom. "Lead the way."

In the spirit of fairness and debts repaid, Isabela did pay—with real gold, mind you—for just one of the trinkets. She told Hawke she'd stolen it, but Hawke, in her usual obtuse way, did not seem to believe her.


End file.
